


A Night, Just We Two

by JennStar



Category: Queen Victoria & Lord Melbourne - Fandom, Vicbourne - Fandom, Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Christmas, F/M, Gift Giving, Romance, Slow Burn, True Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennStar/pseuds/JennStar
Summary: It's Christmastime and a brooding Lord Melbourne fears he made one of the worst decisions of his life after drunkenly deciding upon a gift for Victoria.  Memories rise to the surface. Will there be consequences?





	1. The Windstorm of a Whirlwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmastime and a brooding Lord Melbourne fears he made one of the worst decisions of his life after he drunkenly decided upon very special gift for Victoria. Memories rise to the surface. Will there be consequences?
> 
> This is my entry for the 2018 Advent Calendar at the "For the Love of Vicbourne" group on Facebook.

  
_“It’s a feeling like nostalgia_  
_Keeps me turning back to you_  
_And a feeling like nostalgia_  
_For the dreams that we once knew_  
_If you’re feeling like what we were feeling is through_  
_Why do I feel nostalgia?_  
_Why do I feel nostalgia like you?”_ (from "Nostalgia" by Mirror, featuring Dave Gahan)

*A beautiful, haunting song that really sets the mood of this piece. Video can be found on YouTube.

 

* * *

 

He had to rewrite the thing twice. The first copy was stained with brandy; the second with his desperate tears.

Why be honest now? Would she even care? She might even laugh. Find him a pathetic old fool. He did not want her pity. It was one thing to be brought low by scandal, but quite another to become someone to truly feel sorry for. How much humiliation could one man endure in a lifetime? Well, this he had brought on himself. Lord Melbourne knew it long before Victoria approached him at Brocket Hall.

His steady daydream for over two years was to be able to express his feelings for her, without reservation. To love her, cherish her...all those reasons he gave her to give up on modeling her life after that blasted Tudor Queen. Such all-consuming devotion now sat listless and despondent because his role had been diminished as of late, no longer her primary protector; her confidant – her almost companion.

He was not ready to let her go, which was completely hypocritical, given it was he who encouraged her to find a husband! Even though he knew marrying one’s first cousin was a terrible idea. What on earth possessed him?

Leopold.

Damn that man. Damn him, damn him, damn him and all his ‘subtle observations’ on the nature of his relationship with his niece. To imply that Victoria looked at him in any way besides as a close friend and mentor was utterly absurd.

No. No, it wasn’t. The King was so terribly spot on it hurt.

It was too much. 

True, the thing had cost Melbourne a small fortune to have created, but what need had he for money these days? He had no wife to waste it on tawdry baubles and French perfume; no son to will it to when his time came; and no daughter in need of a dowry or lavish wedding ceremony. At least he would be able to afford the considerable medical expenses that would accrue as he drank himself to death. Perhaps, instead of a Bible, they should bury him with a full bottle of brandy tucked inside the crook of his arm. Alcohol was the closest thing to religion he had now that Victoria all but abandoned him. 

Who would even mourn him? His family? Naturally. Friends? He could count his true friends on one hand. Colleagues and acquaintances could go sod off. He was no great Prime Minister – he would be leaving no impressive legacy behind for the public to recall for generations to come. Beyond this motley group, who would truly miss him?

Victoria. His heart would blanch at the thought of how his death would devastate her – strong yet sensitive creature that she is – if it were not already hers to control entirely.

Almost since their first meeting – since that night his resolve nearly melted under the heat of a thousand candles, amidst the cacophony of color, sound, and too much champagne - he was hers, body, mind, and deplorable soul.

Lord Melbourne again contemplated his cruel move. But what was more gut-wrenching than watching the love of his life give his gardenia away to that clockwork nobody, however innocent her reaction to that ill-timed tale of woe? Perhaps it was a bit inappropriate, but at this late stage, after so many sleepless nights dulling his perception – often well into the next morning, with or without his beloved French-pressed coffee – he found he did not care one jot. His new companion, the daily hangover, would never disappoint him. And he could always handle things well if his affliction ever grew tired of him.

Or bored. Or found someone younger. More handsome. Less political.

_Royal._

His stomach began to clench in knots, while the searing pain of overindulgence presented itself most demonstratively in that oft abused organ, as well as underneath his mercilessly graying temples.

He stretched in his worn armchair and rubbed at the familiar crick in his neck. The countdown to his own special version of purgatory was about to begin – he was to travel to Windsor Castle that evening for Christmas Eve festivities.

“Coffee!”

His manservant appeared seconds later, belying his hesitance. “My lord, I must inform you that, unfortunately, the brew is not palatable today. We believe the beans are not at all fresh. May we bring you some strong Assam tea instead?”

“Oh God!” Melbourne leaned forward with his head in his hands and groaned in genuine agony while his servant stood at attention. Eventually his hand rose in a gesture of futility the experienced servant recognized as, “Yes, fine. Go on.” He bowed, uttering a practiced, “Very good, sir” and rushed back towards the kitchen.

Eight more hours until almost certain misery ensued.

 

* * *

 

"You had better not try that again, brother. It is most unbecoming,” Prince Albert warned in urgent, hushed tones to Prince Ernst, who merely chuckled and waved his fork full of fried potatoes in the air.

“I know not of what you speak, but I am sure you are just being a – how you do you say it? – ah, yes – a stick in the mud!” he replied with too much gaiety for so early in the day. He aimed his soulful brown eyes at Victoria, who sat silently chewing a small piece of toast laden with marmalade. Then he had the gall to wink at her.

 She smiled blandly. “Is this what I have to look forward to, boys?” she said to neither brother in particular, reaching for her china teacup. While Albert scoffed, her Uncle Leopold patted her hand in mock consolation. He was spectacular at fake sincerity. 

“Oh Victoria, how very little you know of what your cousins are capable of. And especially Albert here,” he nodded across the table. “No mere boy will bring you as many fine sons to carry on our impressive Coburg legacy.”

 “Uncle!” Albert bristled, color high in his cheeks. He wondered how much longer he would have to endure this strange English breakfast, not to mention his uncle’s untimely remarks about spawning children. He was fully aware of what his duties entailed; of that there was no question. If only he could return to his borrowed room and curl up with one of the three novels he brought written by this bright fellow, Charles Dickens.

 

* * *

  
When the Queen proposed to Albert back in October, during his second visit to the castle, (which had nothing whatsoever to do with her mother and Uncle Leopold’s excessive extolling of the younger prince’s many virtues and attributes), she had been so sure, so immensely certain that he was her destiny. Victoria made what she believed to be a most rational decision after having reacquainted herself with her German cousin after only five days. Yet as she was so young and inexperienced, she easily got swept up in the windstorm of a whirlwind romance. And the fact that Albert was of royal lineage was just too good to be true!

Just as suddenly as she became infatuated with Lord Melbourne, he had been banished from her thoughts, locked away for some sentimental reason should she decide to reminisce about him long after her anger had worn off. Even after the gentlest of rejections, it still irked her that he dared to turn her down after she had poured out her soul to him. He effortlessly spun a tale about being like some bird called a rook and how he was too stuck on the memory of his deceased wife – the very same wife who cuckolded him with Lord Byron – to make room for her heart. It didn’t just feel like he threw her confession back in her face – he didn’t want her heart anywhere near his person, as if it were infected with typhus – or the plague!

About a week after the costume ball, everyone gathered to watch Victoria give a piano recital. She played dexterously, determinately, losing herself in the discordance of the melody, pushing that part of her who thought to give her whole heart to Melbourne to the deepest recesses of her mind. She did not pound on the instrument due to the nature of the composition; that was done for deliberate effect.

Melbourne sat in the audience, and she felt his eyes burning through her back like molten lava. She played with greater intensity then, practically slamming her lithe fingers against the keys, developing a mantra straight from her soul to help keep her strong and maintain her dignity– I will move on! Who is he? He is no one. I am Queen. I AM QUEEN. Over and over she would repeat herself. If Albert had not arrived and turned the page of her songbook when he did, she would fear for her very sanity.

Albert made her forget to be miserable. He challenged her – indeed, she discovered that hearing truth, as opposed to flattery, was refreshing. Albert was the same age, even sharing the same hair and eye colors. (Then again, they _were_ related.) But while her eyes took on a darker, murkier oceanic blue, his were an icy, crystalline, pure blue. And the mustache! He had not worn one the last time she saw him. It was neither puny, nor flashy. It was elegant. _He_ was elegant. 

And he was so frightfully intelligent! University educated, he was not of an antiquated mindset, interested in tomes of the past like Lord M. Albert invigorated her mind in an entirely novel way. He broadened her worldview. Victoria found his secondhand telling of tales of the destitute living outside her very doorstep very compelling and heart-rending, while Lord Melbourne would never condone discussing such a sordid topic. Albert never shied away from expressing his opinions on even the most controversial issues of the day, which had not been part of her regular discourse with Lord M. She had been shielded from the world long enough!

It also didn’t hurt that Albert cut an exceptional figure in his form-fitting white cashmere breeches. Well, that was something her uncle had been correct about – he was most definitely not boy anymore.

At twenty, Victoria believed she was mature enough to know her own heart, and now had someone who could openly return her unquenchable affections. She felt perfectly aligned with Albert and giddily awaited his leather booted footfalls to pass through the archway of the Blue Room at Windsor. She had fragrant gardenias woven into her fashionable, sophisticated hairstyle, so _au courant_ , as Skerrett had remarked playfully. Her petite form was draped in a diaphanous peachy-pink gown, as romantic as it was becoming against her clear ivory complexion. A hundred white candles were spread throughout the room, completing the effect.

Afterwards, the newly engaged couple joked about how theirs would be a “marriage of inconvenience.”

But those words would come back to haunt them. Barely two months into their engagement, she started to tire of Albert and his overly strict, borderline precocious attitude. Their arguments were no longer an unorthodox form of getting to know each other; they became a way of life. To emphasize their mutual dissatisfaction, he and Victoria began to put on airs, a defense mechanism that each young royal grew to rely on whenever the need arose.

Even Ernst, with whom she shared a similar temperament but could not marry for political reasons, started to trample on her last nerve. The cad had been flirting with Harriet Sutherland almost since their first encounter, the night of his and Albert’s arrival. He smoothly complimented her lady-in-waiting about everything imaginable: her hair, her gown, her perfume. And Harriet, a married woman, had encouraged his behavior. Victoria knew nothing physical came of it. But still...she would never do that to her husband. Or her companion.

Victoria would always be thankful for her Lord M, for that is who he would always remain. He had told her she would be a great Queen even before he taught her the basics of the British constitution. He seemed to know everything (and everyone) under the sun. But knowing and trusting were two different sides of the same coin. And he did not trust her with his heart; instead, he held onto it like a stubborn old mule (not that she had an inkling of what a mule actually looked like).

“Drina? Drina! You are not eating,” her mother scolded.

Indeed, she had forgotten all about her breakfast. Her eggs had grown rubbery and cold, unpalatable. Abruptly, she rose from her seat. Ernst and Albert, as yet unused to royal protocol in England, had to put down their forks and knives immediately. Albert only had a few bites of bacon remaining, while the ever gregarious Ernst was not even halfway  through with his meal. 

“I am going for a walk. Alone.”  She called for Dash.

Oh to be away from stupid, stupid Windsor and Albert’s beloved trees. If she could climb a damned tree, even he wouldn’t be able to find her to bother her about Dickens. Or trains. Or mathematics. Or anything. What a colossal mess!


	2. Veiled Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmastime and a brooding Lord Melbourne fears he made one of the worst decisions of his life after drunkenly deciding upon a very special gift for Victoria. Memories rise to the surface. Will there be consequences?
> 
> This is my entry for the 2018 Advent Calendar at the "For the Love of Vicbourne" group on Facebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter for you here, to make up for the shorter length of the next one.

_"So don't you stop, being a man_  
_Just take a little look from our side when you can_  
_Sow a little tenderness_  
_No matter if you cry_  
_Give me a reason to love you_  
_Give me a reason to be, a woman"_

(from "Glory Box" by Portishead)

 

* * *

 

Victoria had just finished going through her boxes for the day, Albert choosing to stay in his room for some reason. Not that she minded in the slightest. Lately they could agree on nothing, save for the fact that neither wanted to be in the same room with each other longer than necessary.

She rose from her desk, the one she had always shared with Lord M, and strolled towards the balcony, pulling her shawl tighter against her plaid woolen day dress. She must speak to Lehzen about the drafty windows. 

She idly wondered when Lord M would be arriving. He had that uncanny ability to be extremely punctual, yet seldom early, whenever they had to meet. Of course now with Albert staying at the palace, his visits had turned less personal, more geared towards discussing matters of state.

He rarely attended dinner anymore, which at first did not bother Victoria. After all, she had monopolized him enough, depriving him of evenings better spent with fellow Whigs, and possibly, women. She never knew what he did with himself now that he wasn’t around so very much anymore. For some reason, this not knowing was troubling, especially when it came to the fairer sex. Still resembling a living version of Michelangelo’s _David_ in his 50s, Lord Melbourne would have no difficulty whatsoever when it came to finding female companions.

He did have a reputation to uphold, after all.

She contemplated the ivory fringe on her shawl. What right did she have to usurp his time any longer? It was not like he was ever really hers. She held no personal claim over him; his allegiance was to the Crown, and as head of the government, he served at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Pleasure. Victoria crossed her arms and walked into her bedchamber, stopping in front of her full-length mirror. She put her hand up to her lips, tracing them absentmindedly while peering at her reflection.

 

* * *

 

Had Lord Melbourne ever hinted at any further intimacies, or had she just imagined it all? Those kisses on her hand each time he bent at the knee in reverence – standard. Even her gross Uncle Cumberland could stoop and kiss her hand. It was a requirement. Was Lord M being mildly flirtatious with her, or was that simply his manner towards every woman he encountered that wasn’t a relation? Not to mention those otherworldly golden green eyes of his that smoldered without even trying (well, one could not help their appearance). They so often made it difficult for her to concentrate. One time because she was so drawn to them she almost lost her footing when exiting the carriage; they were too magnetic for words! They captured her breath. Made her head swim with delight. Sometimes it was all too much for her and she had to avert her own eyes. 

It was all so very confusing.

When Lord Melbourne stood next to her throne, the day she was being presented with potential Ladies of the Bedchamber, he made one of his quirky little observations – he was capable of such whimsical sarcasm; it came so naturally to him – a funny witticism she could not remember off the top of her head (it was in one of her journals, she was certain), but she swore he regarded her then with more than a simple fatherly fondness. She would never forget that exchange so long as she lived.

While she gazed up at his face in wonder, a small smile erupted and there was a dancing light in his eyes. Lord M turned away ever so briefly, only to gift her with a playful sidelong glance and slightly upturned lips, almost as if he were compelled to do so. That time it was as if he were measuring her up in some way. Then again, he could have found something incredibly amusing. He was perpetually amused by the foibles of society and the general absurdities of being human. But although their eyes had met many times, on that occasion something had felt vaguely conspiratorial. And somewhat illicit...

Victoria contemplated what he might have wanted to convey to her a few days later, the evening of her coronation ball, after the Russian Grand Duke was suddenly forcefully snatched away in the middle of their waltz by Lord Alfred. When she spun back around, third or fourth flute of champagne of the night perched against her lips, there he was, gallantly asking her to dance, then advancing upon her with his preternatural, piercing gaze.

It was a miracle she did not faint then and there.

Before she could utter a single word, he took her in his arms and glided her across the floor; they were completely in sync. She was a Queen, yet in that moment, with Lord M, she imagined herself to be a fairy tale princess.

Suddenly, she wanted to know everything about him. She smelled him, truly, for the first time. It was like her senses had become more finely tuned through proximity. She understood then what female animals in heat must experience. Or was it the drink? The odd-smelling candle wax drip, drip, dripping from the sconces and chandeliers? Lady Portman herself said she was nearly scalded when standing next to Lord Melbourne and had to rush away in the middle of their conversation.

She wondered what on earth those two talked about so much.

That first time he refused Victoria, in her misguided attempt at seduction, she should have learned her lesson right then and there. She later sobbed into her pillow over how unsophisticated, even gauche, she appeared. She almost did not want to face him the next day, so profound was her mortification. But then, on the day of her coronation, he beamed at her with such unadulterated pride she could feel it seeping into her bones like sunlight against her skin, germinating that unfortunate seed of hope.

This past September, although he cared very little for the pomp and spectacle, Lord M agreed to attend the opera with her. That evening, however, his eyes had been focused straight ahead, not making small talk with her ladies as was his wont. Nor did he casually smirk at, or even coyly glance at Victoria – he quite brazenly stared at her. She could actually sense his sharp gaze boring into her exposed back from her seat in the front row of the royal box, the amiable Russian Grand Duke at her side.

It was obvious from the intensity of his eyes, which grew exponentially the second she turned around to express her joy over the performance. This was admiration, but it was not the same kind she felt wash over her in the abbey, that of pride in her progress as his pupil. This was born out of another type of feeling altogether.

For the first time her smile was not returned, the air thick with something she could not name. Victoria knew she had somehow broken through his near impenetrable shell of propriety. No, he looked at her, and her alone, not as her Prime Minister, but as a virile and hot-blooded man who knew what he wanted, without question.

Older, wiser, and more confident in her capacity as a monarch, she soon determined she would meet with him to discuss their future together. But after being rejected by him yet again, the message was received loud and clear: there would never be any romance between them. Only perpetual heartache.

In her lonely private moments, Victoria concluded that Lord Melbourne had never been searching for love in the first place. It was true, she did give him a reason to get up in the morning, inspiring the fair-to-middling Prime Minister to serve Crown and country with enthusiasm by leading his party and his people. Most of all, he felt it was a great privilege and honor to serve as her mentor and private secretary - to have her under his wing. Though at times he could be rather indulgent of her whims, he nevertheless kept Victoria on track, explaining what this term meant, and who ruled over which territories and for what reasons, and so on. The business of government was endless and ever-evolving, and she was eternally grateful to have such a gifted adviser.

He had given her a completely unromantic, perfectly unremarkable telescope for her birthday when she would have preferred something more feminine, less educational.

But as long as the gift came from him, no matter his true intent, she would treasure it always. Just as she would always treasure him.

 

* * *

 

"Happy Christmas, Lord M.”

“Happy Christmas, Ma’am.”

Victoria cocked her head to the side and studied him. He knew what she saw and failed to mention…yet. If he was a little careworn, it was as a result of having slept fitfully in his armchair, waking to blinding light and throbbing temples – and no coffee. Good god, how was he even standing upright?

If he trembled with nerves, it was because he had handed over Victoria’s gift to a footman, advising him to handle it with the utmost care, slipping him some extra coin so that it could be placed directly in her bedchamber where no one was likely to disturb it.

It was far too personal a gift to leave lying around just anywhere. In addition, the embarrassment over what he had done, now cleared of his alcohol-induced haze – for the present, at least – settled in, and he became acutely aware for the first time that his actions could have indelible consequences.

She, on the other hand was so stunning he was momentarily at a loss for words, which did not often happen to him. Her golden brown hair had been curled at the ends, with half of her thick mane swept artfully off her face by red and green satin ribbons, accompanied by fresh sprigs of holly and two large poinsettia blossoms. Her off the shoulder gown was of deep green satin and featured a tight drop waist and black lace overlay, with lace of the same hue adorning her daringly low neckline and hem. She completed her holiday ensemble with black satin elbow length gloves and delicate emerald and diamond jewelry.

To say the halls of Windsor Castle had been decked was an extreme understatement. There were so many evergreens, festooned with garlands and ornaments of all shapes, sizes and colors, with hundreds upon hundreds of candles precariously perched atop their branches. Melbourne steered clear of them as he feared he might put an eye out or start a fire if he for some reason tripped over something. This was not such a remote possibility, given that the floors had been recently waxed and his shoes were still wet from the ice and slush, which, mercifully, had spared him a broken back.

Lord Melbourne knew Victoria matched the décor on purpose. But he matched _her_ quite by accident. Gladly eschewing the dreaded Windsor uniform, he instead donned his very best black velvet frock coat, adding a green and black patterned waistcoat and deep green cravat over an immaculately starched white shirt. It was as festive as he could manage without resembling a damned dandy.

Dinner soon commenced after and consisted of the usual suspects, in no particular order (as if he could remember between all the wassail and wine he knocked back): roast goose with sage, roast beef, quail, oysters, mince pie, plum pudding, leg of lamb, gingerbread, Black Forest cake, accompanied by assorted soups and sauces. They also served hot cocoa and spiced rum, in addition to the traditional English wassail, the latter of which might or might not become everyone’s best friend as the night wore on.

As this was to be more of an intimate affair, guests included himself, the Coburg cousins, Uncle Leopold, the Duke of Sussex and his wife, Lady Cecilia, Emma Portman and Lord Portman, Harriet Sutherland and the Duke of Sutherland, the Duchess of Kent, Alfred Paget and a few others, all of which Melbourne had interacted with at some point, with varying degrees of interest and success. A small orchestra, strategically set in front of two of the largest firs, played the usual holiday classics, as well as some German songs, such as “O Tannenbaum.”

 

* * *

 

The elaborate meal was enjoyed by all, and in a most congenial atmosphere. But the merriment ground to a halt when Prince Albert remarked out of nowhere, because he truly had little use for tact, and so great was his enthusiasm over _Oliver Twist_ (and greater still his annoyance over the Prime Minister’s presence during their ‘family’ festivities), that he really could not help himself, “Such a sumptuous feast. I do wonder how the poor are making due on this cold, blustery night. What say you, Lord Melbourne?”

He fixed the object of his derision with a cold, critical glare – indeed, it could be considered more frigid than any blanketless night in the middle of January – in the Arctic tundra.

This was exactly why he told himself not to come to the castle in the first place. But as usual, she, in all her youthful loveliness, wore him down. And, as always, he would obey his Queen’s requests, even those that were personally painful to endure.

This was not the first jibe Albert would take at him regarding the nation’s poor population. And not likely to be the final critique. So he swallowed his sip of wine, and _damn it all_ , his pride, and stared directly into the narrowed eyes of his nemesis. With kindness, of course - he was not one for making enemies if he could help it.

“I think it is a terrible business, of course.” He swirled his wine glass, contemplating its contents for a moment. Impassioned over the plight of the poor and downtrodden this young man may be, but the princeling was also bloodless. The idea that this boy, this milksop, would sire a future King or Queen of Great Britain and Ireland – at twenty years old, barely out of the cradle himself – and that in order for that to happen, Albert would have to invade the sweet Queen - made Lord Melbourne's very English blood boil.

Then he saw blood. Duels were fairly commonplace. She would never forgive him. How much had he had to drink tonight? What exactly was _in_ this wassail stuff anyway?

Brandy: Maker of Messes; champagne: Designer of Disasters. And now the wine was reminding him of that rather disturbing dream he had in which he actually succeeded in putting a bullet in the prince’s shoulder. Yet even his subconsciousness hadn’t the heart to do more than wound him. But oh how Albert cried and wailed. There wasn't even that much blood loss. It had all started over an altercation over that blasted gardenia corsage.

Clearly, he was losing his mind. Suddenly, the spice and pine-infused air felt rather stifling.

“You know, Ma’am,” he said, turning toward Victoria, completely ignoring Albert’s spiteful look, “I believe that something is not settling well within my stomach.” Melbourne made a great show of clutching his midsection.

“Not able to handle such rich, savory fare anymore, Lord Melbourne?”

Victoria shot Leopold a reproving glare. Was this what she had to look forward to? What did Lord M ever do to deserve such ill treatment by her family? All he ever did was support her, guide her. He was duty-bound and no threat to Albert. Not in the slightest.

“Why don’t you lie down, Lord M? I will have some peppermint leaf tea brought to your chamber.”

“I could not impose.”

“You could never impose on Us! But I do hope you do not become so indisposed that you miss out on the dancing.”

He groaned internally. Dancing was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

He was so tempted to locate the servant boy from earlier, confide that he had erred and brought the wrong gift, retrieve it, and scamper off into the night with his tail between his legs.

“Perhaps I should take my leave then, before the snow makes travel impossible.”

“Nonsense, Lord M. It is all settled. You will remain here overnight.”

“But I am due at my sister’s home tomorrow for our Lamb family gathering.” As ever, Victoria’s large dusty blue eyes brooked no refusal. And each time he turned her down, he had lived to regret it. He did have his own rooms here, after all, as well as several changes of clothing and a well-stocked library. And there was that blissfully well-stocked liquor cabinet. He nearly relented. “If I can just rest for the present, I am confident all will right itself within a half of an hour or so.”

Then he would be able to escape what had all the makings of what would turn into yet another scandal for him, the rather aptly named _Windsor Holiday Nightmare of 1839_.

Why did she care so very much whether he should stay at the castle? The Coburgs made it their divine purpose to inform him he had overstayed his welcome at every turn. To their chagrin, Queen Victoria continually overruled their wishes, as was _Her_ divine right.

“No, no, please stay! We will make sure you can be on your way to your dear Emily’s home with plenty of time to spare!” she countered cheerfully.

He wanted to cup her face in his hands – her hair with its coils of ribbons and fragrant seasonal blossoms and berries reminded him of a fairy straight out a children’s picture book. But he had to banish the traitorous thought as soon as it came to the fore. She was not his woman. She never was his and never would be, all thanks to his dastardly devotion to duty. 

Instead, he inclined his head. “I shall be most grateful for whatever Her Majesty offers.”

She smiled with genuine delight (and genuine dimples, he’d noted adoringly). For once, Lord Melbourne was relieved to have to remove himself from her presence. The wine truly did go to his head, clouding his judgment. It hurt not to be able to touch her as he had longed to do for so very long. As he caught a whiff of her heavenly perfume, Melbourne admitted reluctantly that he was entirely capable of following his inclinations, no matter what Leicester told his beloved. 

Why did they both have to go and fall in love with their Queens?

Victoria ushered over a servant and gave her orders. She followed him as he headed off towards his rooms. “And where is your gift for Us, Lord M? We have yours, of course.”

“Oh, I had a servant bring it to your bedroom, Ma’am.”

She was undeterred. “May We have a hint?”

He considered his answer. In the end, he couldn’t lie. But neither did he have the right to be so bold. He ultimately settled for veiled honesty. “Just a memory I had is all, Ma’am.” He bent low over her hand,  but stopped himself briefly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And if you please, do not so much as peek under the wrappings until tomorrow,” he smiled. “Father Christmas will know even if I won’t!” he winked.

“You have my word, Lord M.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips against the black satin covering her hand for slightly longer than was considered proper – and he knew it. Victoria gave him a wide smile and turned away. He watched her retreating form in agony, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, eventually stalking off towards the den of drafts designated just for him and his self-reproach.

As the steaming pot of tea was brought to him, Melbourne sighed. He didn’t need hot beverages. He needed to leave. He lay down just the same, not sick in the stomach, but in the heart. Was it truly duty that brought him to his engaged Queen’s side? Was he a masochist? Was ‘duty’ just a blanket excuse to be near her? It was equally as convenient to conjure up the word whenever she tried to upend his tightly wound emotions. He felt tears prickling at his lashes. He closed his eyes out of weariness and promptly fell asleep.

And he missed the dancing.

 

* * *

 

Victoria was disappointed in Lord Melbourne. He had been the one bright spot all evening (figuratively speaking, that is; there were candles literally everywhere: sconces, tree branches, the dining room table, etc.), and she was really looking forward to his company. He had visited less and less since the royal engagement, serving only in the capacity of private secretary. These days it was duty over distraction. Even though she swore she saw hints of jealousy emerge whenever Albert was brought up, she must have been mistaken. He did refuse her offer, after all, made worse by the fact that she made an absolute fool of herself on such a perfectly glorious morning.

She would never forget his face, the way light caught his eyes, the way the wind caressed his chocolate curls. How his pale skin positively glowed. There was a fragile tension in his hands as he stroked her wrist, almost as if he were wrestling with something. Then later, that absurd Leicester costume he wore – the mysterious appearance of an immaculate white orchid. It was all so very pointless

She therefore resolved to purge any fanciful notions she had regarding her Lord M returning her affections by steadfastly guarding her heart against any potential trauma. Yet there he was with gestures suggesting otherwise. His words meant to placate her were not convincing, either.

It was all nothing more than veiled honesty in some way, shape or form, a Melbourne trademark if ever there was one. Anyway, a father could bring his daughter an orchid, could he not? She shook her head emphatically as she pulled out the orchid she had pressed between the pages of her biography of Elizabeth I nearly three months earlier. Such was the burden of nostalgia. It never got any easier, having come to terms with the fact that their ship had sailed long ago.


	3. Look Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmastime and a brooding Lord Melbourne fears he made one of the worst decisions of his life after drunkenly deciding upon his gift for Victoria. Memories rise to the surface. Will there be consequences?
> 
> My entry for the 2018 Advent Calendar at the 'For the Love of Vicbourne" group on Facebook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, yet pivotal chapter for you. Enjoy!

"I hold this letter in my hand  
A plea, a petition, a kind of prayer  
I hope it does as I have planned  
Losing her again is more than I can bear  
I kiss the cold, white envelope  
I press my lips against her name  
Two hundred words. We live in hope  
The sky hangs heavy with rain"

(from ''Love Letter" by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds)

 

* * *

 

As Skerrett started to remove the pins from her hair, Victoria noticed it, sitting silently atop her nightstand. The dresser followed her line of vision until she exclaimed with enthusiasm, “Your Majesty, what a surprise!

The Queen had quite forgotten Lord Melbourne’s gift would had been placed somewhere in her bedroom. She had imbibed more festive spirit-laden concoctions than intended and her mind spun a little as a result. It was the only way she could survive all that forced gaiety. When he left the party, it was as if all the buoyancy left with him. The air turned heavy and hollow, and she had to call for a light wrap not long after seeing him off.

Now, next to her bed of all places, sat a medium sized square box wrapped in metallic paper, perhaps one foot all around, encircled by a wide gilded ribbon tied into an artful bow. Victoria rose from her vanity and ghosted her fingers over the silken material. A small note was also attached, but she dare not open it until she was completely alone.

Feigning innocence, she returned to her seat in front of the vanity and mused, tapping her finger over her chin, “I wonder who it could be from.” Skerrett paused in brushing out her mistress' wavy tresses and their eyes met in the mirror.

Skerrett knew. Skerrett probably knew that _Victoria_ knew, but neither was about to let anything slip.

As soon as her dresser had left, Victoria practically stumbled over herself to retrieve the note, tucked beneath a line of ribbon, penned in a very familiar carefree slanted script:

_“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. But please do not shake this box, if you can at all help it, Ma’am. Happy Christmas, Yours Faithfully, Melbourne.”_

Clad in her nightgown and a woolen wrapper, hair blissfully unbound, she picked up the gift box, marveling at the shimmery paper that was of an unusual shade halfway between silver and gold. If only she had the time to paint it and copy the color exactly...

Just then, twelve bells chimed; Christmas Day 1839 was officially here. With a cry of glee, she carefully pulled apart the ribbon and slid her greedy fingers beneath the lid, lifting it up gingerly, slowly savoring the suspense. She was obliged to remove more than a few layers of tissue paper until she came to a smaller rectangle box.

Sevrés. She knew the name. They were the premier producer of fine French porcelain products. Perhaps Lord M purchased some sort of figurine for her?

Victoria carefully carried the precious cargo to her bed, quite possibly too intimate a location to open a Christmas gift from one’s Prime Minister – and far too early by all standards. Except that Lord M had told her to wait until Christmas Day, which it technically was as of three minutes ago. She took a deep breath and removed the lid containing the Sevrés creation.

Her breath left her lips in a whoosh and she gasped, marveling at its wholly unexpected contents.

It was so perfect and delicate she was almost afraid to touch it. More long than it was tall, it was a white porcelain box, trimmed with light gold, decorated with charming hand painted birds, all in pairs, with two sculpted cardinals perched atop the lid, which had a hinged back. Such a thoughtful gift!

Still, nothing could have prepared her for what was inside _that_ box.

 

* * *

 

Lined with the finest seafoam green silk, a color that featured prominently in the pastel color palate adorning the porcelain surface, it was an empty vessel save for two objects: First, a very fine diamond and sapphire encrusted hair comb set in silver, featuring a whimsical floral design.

Well, she tried to shrug off, blue _was_ one of her favorite colors.

But this was no telescope. Not even close. This was on a whole new level of gift-giving altogether. Whatever was Lord M thinking, chosing such an immensely beautiful, not to mention expensive present?

Second, hidden underneath the hair comb, lay a thickish note. On instinct, she lifted it to her nose and all manner of memories assaulted her at once. The cursive script, again, instantly recognizable; the words perplexing. No ‘ _To Her Majesty the Queen on the Occasion of Her Nineteenth Birthday’_ – type formality. Only two words: " _Look beneath."_

 _Beneath._ But why? Everything was inside the box already. She supposed it could be considered a trinket box, for it was certainly spacious enough to hold more than this stunning comb. However, something told her not to add anything further. Regardless, she could not wait to display it in a prominent place on her vanity.

When Victoria unfolded the note, she discovered it was actually three sheets of high quality parchment paper creased neatly, one sheet on top of the next. Adding to the intrigue, some of the ink on certain words had been smudged.

A quick couple of paragraphs had been hastily scrawled at the top of the first sheet, but there were so many lines below them.

Many, many, many.

The message was brief but very telling of its author's state of mind:

 

_My dearest Victoria, my Queen,_

_Please forgive me for what you are about to read. But tonight I will be strangled by circumstance no longer. Blame it on excessive drink; on nights spent wasted in futile contemplation. I humbly present to Her Majesty some thoughts which are perhaps better left unsaid and unspoken, cowardly ushered forth by means of a quill pen and a head stuffed to the brim with liquor and dreams. I haven’t the heart to deny you anything anymore. But if you please, indulge this lonely, drunkenly hopeful widower_ ( _such vile words, but alas, they are true) by reading on._

_This box, which once belonged to my eternally devoted mother and was bequeathed onto me just prior to her death, in the hopes I might one day have a daughter to pass it onto (which, as you should know never came to be), and though I feel you are anything but a daughter to me, is yours._

_Please, my dearest Queen, follow my brief instructions. If you look underneath this box, you will find a tiny metal crank (all my own idea - the box was never equipped as such before. It held jewels and other such small items). Wind it up a few times and then you will hear._

_And when you hear, you will know. All secrets shall be revealed…_

_Again, please excuse my haste in writing this...I fear I am not entirely in my right mind._

_But if not now, there will never be another when._

_Yours,_

_William_

My, how Lord M had rambled. Though confusing towards the end, overall she found it rather endearing. And certainly more heartfelt than that birthday note advising her to study the heavens!  

She would certainly humor him regarding the crank on the bottom. But first, what was all this below it – a, a _poem_? It must be some old Christmas tale from a bygone era he felt like sharing with her. It was a very sweet and unique gesture.

But why ever would he sign it using only his Christian name?

In the chilly silence, Victoria's heart thudded against her breast. She plumped up her pillows against her headboard and prepared herself to be regaled by some quaint, potentially obscure holiday musings, composed by her hopelessly scandal-ridden, terribly sensitive friend and Prime Minister.

Not one solid minute had passed when all three pages fell onto her lap like a scalding potato. She was utterly dumbfounded. It wasn’t the poem she had expected. In fact, the verses were not even remotely related to Christmas. It was, it was…

“Oh dear Lord!” she breathed, incredulous. Victoria steeled herself and read from the very first line, stroking the trinket box absentmindedly. She hurriedly located the crank and wound it up, immediately transported somewhere she, a recently engaged woman, had no business revisiting.


	4. Words I Daren't Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmastime and a brooding Lord Melbourne fears he just made one of the worst decisions of his life after drunkenly deciding upon a gift for Victoria. Memories rise to the surface. Will there be consequences?
> 
> My entry for the 2018 Advent Calendar for the Facebook group "For the Love of Vicbourne"

 

 

 

_"I'm watching from the wall_  
_As in the streets we fight_  
_This world all gone to war_  
_All I need is you tonight_

_And I draw a line_  
_To your heart today_  
_To your heart from mine_  
_A line to keep us safe_

_All through the rising sun_  
_All through the circling years_  
_You were the only one_  
_Who could have brought me here"_ (from "One Line" by PJ Harvey)

 

* * *

 

Three subdued knocks at his door. Were they bringing him even _more_ tea? Lord Melbourne glanced at the clock and sighed in aggravation.  He had fallen asleep, and quite deeply considering the time. Having only removed his frock coat and shoes, his clothing was dreadfully rumpled. He went to answer the door. His eyes practically sprang out of his head when he saw who was standing on the other side – and what she was carrying.

Oh no. He was not ready for this. He was not supposed to be here when she opened her gift, let alone be available to discuss it!

“Ma’am!” He stuck his head out and surveyed the dimly lit corridors. Victoria waited outside his door garbed in nothing more than a pale blue nightdress and shawl, an expectant expression brightening her face like a beacon. Accusations of criminal conversation swam in his head; however, he could not send her away. It was her home, after all. And it was, as always, his pleasure to serve her. "Please, come in. Quickly now.”

When she brushed past him, he heard her sniffling somewhat. “I have a gift for you, too, of course, but I had planned to give it to you after you returned from your nap. Her eyes swept through his festive disarray. Just like at Dover House, only fancier.

“Lord M, thank you so much for my gift! But it is too much. I understand it belonged to your own mother – I cannot fathom why you would give me something of hers.

His mind was so muddled he struggled to string words together to form some semblance of a coherent explanation. One that wouldn’t have Victoria running for the hills.

“Yes, it was my mother’s, Ma’am. Most items of hers she had bequeathed to Emily to be passed onto her own daughters, and so forth. I suppose she willed this box to me because she held out hope for, well…I only made a few adjustments here and there.”

He was never so thankful for muted candlelight. He was both tearing up and blushing profusely.

“And such an exquisite comb! I own so many jeweled pieces already, but since it came from you, Lord M, I plan to wear it all the time!”

“Oh that is not necessary, Ma’am." His eyebrows quirked upward as he joked, "I'm afraid I did not have any telescopes lying around, so I had to search for a suitable alternative." She laughed merrily, clutching the box tightly.

_Please do not mention the poem. Please do not mention the poem. God, I don’t really believe you exist, however under these circumstances, I beg you to make an exception for this wretched heathen…_

“And what a long poem! That must have taken you ages to write!” He blushed furiously.

“I…erm…” he stuttered.

“I read the first couple of stanzas, but then I thought about what a lovely speaking voice you have. You have always been most proficient at recitation, Lord M. Therefore, please read it to me. From the beginning.”

She unceremoniously plopped down on his bed and primly folded her hands on her lap, fur-slippered feet dangling off the side. Melbourne noticed her shawl sliding down her shoulders and itched to place it back where it belonged. Instead, he turned away.

He was afraid this would happen. Couldn’t he have fallen asleep _before_ he had his brandy-wrought epiphany?

“Ma’am, really my voice is most scratchy. Can you not tell how hoarse it has become in a matter of hours?”

“Please read it to me!  I insist…as a woman, not as a Queen. Today I am just plain old Victoria.” She grinned almost shyly then.

The snow began to pile up outside, obscuring landmarks, swirling and smacking against the windowpane.

“Please, Lord M…It is rather difficult to read in certain spots. Almost as if you were in a rush, or…or--”

“Intoxicated, Ma’am?” Victoria looked scandalized.

“But why would you…”

That expression he wore on his face as he reluctantly sunk down onto the bed next to her seemed oddly familiar. Melbourne then raised his head, seemingly exposing every vulnerability he had.

“I think you must know why.”

She didn’t want to hear anymore. “Please… _William_.” She was on the verge of tears.

Now he had no choice. He could not make her cry; not anymore -- and especially not on Christmas.

 

* * *

 

Victoria looked down at her hands, which had started to shake. Melbourne reached over and grasped them with a gentle squeeze. They were freezing. He rubbed at her soft skin with his strong, slender fingers and urged himself not to lift them to his lips to kiss the cold away. When he felt she was sufficiently warm, he brought a candle close to the pages to decipher his chicken scratch, but far enough away not to singe them.

This was his Christmas gift to her, not to mention the single stupidest, most moronic thing he would ever do.

Ever.

She shifted closer to his side and leaned into his arm. Melbourne looked down at her with heart-stopping tenderness, tucking her under his arm. He cleared his throat and began:

 

_There was one night, as you’ll recall_

_It was your coronation ball._

_I, you might not have guessed,_

_was holed up and depressed --_

_Almost never left home at all._

_Mere hours earlier I cried,_

_grieving for a son who had died._

_But my friend, she begged me –_

_Relinquish the old me --_

_Please come now and put him aside._

_I strode in, my beautiful girl._

_You danced with a Duke or an Earl._

_Then smiled so sweetly_

_(I watched you discreetly.)_

_You disappeared into a twirl._

_My friend began to press --_

_Why so keen to assess?_

_With wistful expression,_

_I gave my impression._

_Acting like I couldn’t care less._

_Determined, free-spirited, kind_

_An active, inquisitive mind_

_What radiance you bring –_

_It’s a wonderful thing!_

_I wished my face were not so lined._

 

At this Victoria looked up, her loosely waved tresses brushing the tip of his chin. “Lord M…”

“Shhh… Let me continue.”

_Before I lose my nerve._

She nodded, bewildered.

 

_I clung to the edge of the floor._

_(Most balls I do truly abhor.)_

_The Duke spun you around,_

_searching you like a hound_

_I could not abide it anymore._

_I made someone drag him away._

_You looked around every which way._

_The Duke put up a fight._

_What cared I for his plight?_

_His welcome he did overstay._

_I moved to take his place –_

_The lost look on your face!_

_I’d kiss you if given the chance…_

 

Her eyes fairly bulged from their sockets and shot to his, lips trembling. He pushed on. Had to...

_But I must settle for this dance_

 

Oh, damn it all. He just could not help himself..

Lord Melbourne hesitantly lifted his fingers and stroked her lower lip, dark gaze firmly locked on her ripe mouth.

_You pivot towards me with such grace._

 

And she did so once more. Pivoting more fully into his body, she kissed his fingertips and turned to rub her cheek against the palm of his hand.  Now it was his turn to be at a loss for words.

“Please go on, William,” she murmured, closing her eyes. Her wish was his command.

_My eyes held words I daren’t speak,_

_Of longing to caress your cheek --_

_Of gowns that hug too well --_

_Base questions you compel..._

_What will you sound like when you peak?_

_I had you in my arms at last,_

_so blind to all who rustled past._

_The orchestra: Your voice_

_My heart sang out its choice._

_I never meant to fall this fast..._

 

“Oh my God…” she breathed. “Does this mean?”

He stroked her hair lovingly and gave her a little half smile. He pressed on, pure emotion infusing his husky voice:

 

_I longed for a night, just we two._

_But what could I possibly do?_

_Your eyes, they implored me --_

_Oh, how I adored thee!_

_I don’t think my Queen had a clue._

_And later when you pledged your heart,_

_Claiming you were my counterpart,_

_I had to disagree --_

_I was a rook, you see --_

_Such cowardice tore us apart._

_I grieved again, trying to bear;_

_Your heart had moved on, drawn elsewhere._

_My time with you: elapsed,_

_My heart: crumpled, collapsed._

_But when was this life ever fair?_

_Though losing you is my worst fear,_

_I want you to be happy, dear._

_Please listen to this song_

_and know that I was wrong._

_I hope these words have made it clear._

 

Melbourne pulled back and placed the pages on his nightstand. He stroked her cheek where he knew her cute dimples lived. But then he started to stutter all over again as he realized the full extent of what just took place.

Treason. He was going to hang.

“I do apologize, Ma’am, for –“

“Victoria,” she stopped him. “I wish to be called Victoria..." She pretended to scour the room for eavesdroppers. “...when we are alone,” she giggled. "And you shall be William, of course."

He really had no idea how to respond anymore. The game had been played out.

“As I was saying… _Victoria_ ,” Melbourne smiled, “I am sorry for being so presumptuous.”

He stared at her with barely disguised longing, just like he did the night of her coronation ball (and many days and nights since).

Emma had stared at him as if he had sprouted three heads. And maybe he did appear that way…love had long been recognized for its transformative properties.

As an afterthought he added, “I am also dreadfully sorry about missing the dancing.”

That’s when he heard the crank being turned. Victoria placed the box atop his rumpled sheets and stood, her tears of happiness and completion hidden in the half-light of the winter moon. Not knowing exactly what tune it would play (for she forgot to listen in her excitement to have her Lord M...er, William recite his poetry), she shook her head in amazement, quietly laughing as she held out her hand.

“May I have the honor?” 

He rose immediately and pulled her into his arms. He began to turn her about the bedroom; it was the most indescribable feeling. “You seem to recall this particular tune, Ma’am.” She nodded against his chest.

It was, in fact, the very same piece the orchestra played during her coronation ball when they danced their one and only dance, a waltz. And it consisted of only that portion of the piece they danced to that night; nothing more, nothing less.

The melody flowed out of the music box – the only one of its kind in the world – to the rhythm of the prancing snowflakes that swirled beyond them as they swayed in the safety and secrecy of Lord Melbourne’s – now William’s -- bedchamber.

Victoria smiled up at him; an early sunrise, love swimming in the depths of her eyes, mirroring his sentiments. His irises, bright green dappled by golden rays.  “Of course, Lord M…I shall never forget.”

He bent and brushed his lips against hers. “No,” he whispered tantilizingly. “I think...neither shall I.”

He had not missed the dance after all.

 

* * *

 

Victoria lay curled on her side next to William, studying one of the lines of his poem rather closely as he twisted a lock of her hair around his finger.

“Darling, whatever did you mean by ‘peak’? Did you mean to write ‘What will I sound like when I _speak?'_  We must keep the liquor cabinets locked up when you are around in case that absurd notion ever pops into your head again. Of course you know what I sound like when I speak! I love to talk."

He slowly started to maneuver his body away from hers.

“No, Victoria, I really did mean to write peak.”

“It was not an error? Well, now you must enlighten me Lord M.”  He sat up fully and quickly tossed her discarded shawl over his trousers.

“It would perhaps be more useful, and enjoyable, to show you what it means.”

“And then I will know? All secrets shall be revealed?”

“Yes, all in good time,” he smirked. But first, let us just get through today.” He tipped her chin up and kissed her full on the mouth. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

“Happy Christmas, William.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, my first full-length fan fic. More Vicbourne AU stories coming soon!
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
